Est. 2002 | "This was a Golden Age, a time of high adventure, rich living, and hard dying… but nobody thought so." —Alfred Bester

Thursday, March 31, 2005

Goodbye, KittyThis morning, Mom and I had Sammy put to sleep. It was the only thing to be done; his kidney problems had made it impossible for him to raise his head, and sooner rather than later he would have been completely immobile. He slipped away so easily. I love you, Sam.

Countdown to Infinite MediocrityI have just read a comic book titled Countdown to Infinite Crisis, and it made me want to cry. Within a year, I will no longer be a reader of superhero comic books; that is neither an oath nor a guarantee, merely a prediction. I gave up Marvel books years ago, when I learned enough to recognize the fundamental principles of the Marvel Universe, and recoiled in disgust. Now it appears my beloved DC Universe, home of the world's greatest heroes (Superman, Batman, Wonder Woman, the list is nearly endless), is being put to an early death. Apparently, no story is worth telling if a minor-but-enduring character isn't killed. Sue Dibny? Tossed away like trash. The Blue Beetle? Killed for pure shock value. The DCU is being infused with a Donald Trump-like showmanship, and I cannot be a party to such a travesty.

As I said, I am making predictions. I not yet know the story of the looming Infinite Crisis. (Nothing looms benevolently, I chose the word for its ominous connotations.) But I do know that the miniseries Identity Crisis was worth less than the sum of it's parts. I do know that in just eighty pages Countdown to Infinite Crisis contained almost everything I hate about superhero comics. (No love is without some loathing.) I do know that I will continue reading DC books until the last possible moment, that I won't give up all hope until even the hope that there is hope is well and truly gone. Yes, I'm being melodramatic, but I am talking about comic book superheroics after all. Melodrama is par for the course. Hell, melodrama is the course.

So now I begin the long goodbye. I have only read comics for five years; so, taking a year to say goodbye is a bit like Jay Leno announcing that he's going to retire... in 2009. And even when I no longer read the adventures of Aquaman and Captain Marvel, Robin and the Super Buddies, I will still read comics. There will still be Blue Monday and Hopeless Savages, Hellboy and B.P.R.D., and maybe even Star Wars Tales, because I'm sentimental and will have a hard time letting go after Revenge of the Sith. I will still read comics, but the lion's share of what I currently read is DC Comics superhero books. Things won't be the same once there is no longer a small, regular pile waiting for me every Wednesday. I am saying goodbye to so many things these days - Sam, Star Wars, Star Trek, DC - that it sometimes seems as if it's all I do.

So now we begin the long goodbye to mystery men and feats of derring-do, villainous soliloquies and merry spandex. I really thought I'd read comics for the rest of my life.... Ah well, maybe I can p[ick it up again in ten years, when with a little luck the damage about to be inflicted will be being retconned out of existence. There's that elusive silver lining: nothing lasts forever, not even disaster.

The above is a mess, but I wanted to get some thoughts down on paper while the hurt and disappointment was still fresh. I had planned to write a comics column for The Newsletter this summer; now, I think perhaps it will be quite different than I had assumed. As in all things, time shall tell.

Wednesday, March 30, 2005

PettyIt is important to live vicariously whenever the opportunity arises. I have never met nor spoken to Never Boy, Never Girl's common law husband, and I gave up the pursuit of his beloved's heart years ago. Never Girl and I are truly friends. Nevertheless, this evening at The Palace, the Detroit Pistons defeated the Sacramento Kings; Never Boy is a native of Sacramento, and an avid supporter of the Kings. As do most Michiganders, I claim loyalty to Detroit's teams. "Victory for ZIM!"

Hello, KittySammy is not doing at all well, and my mother has been none too helpful. She is handling the situation with all the delicacy of the proverbial rhinocerus in a China shop. "He was one hundred and seventy days dying and not yet dead."

Tuesday, March 29, 2005

"Either way, your seed dies with you."

The atmospheric conditions today were essentially perfect. Warm, but not hot. Sunny, but not unrelentingly. Today was the first true day of Spring. Winter is, at last, over; alas, all good things must come to an end.

MotionGo! Go! Go! The ability to ambulate is very important to my creative process. The Space Pirates Project revolves around the voyages of the dread pirate starship the Scarlet Narwhal, the heroes of A World On Fire try to stay one step ahead of the totalitarian Commonwealth in the aeroplane/spaceship Aristophanes, Sidekick and The Psychotic Mouseketeer use the Mousemobile to battle George McGovern and his George McGovernmobile, and even in In Search of the Perfect Lesbian I have spent a not insignificant amount of time deciding who drives what kind of car. Pete Foster drives a rusty 1988 Monte Carlo universally known as The Count of Monte Carlo; Scipio Winter drives a 2002 Saturn VUE called The Viewmaster. Margaret Eastman drives a schweet 1985 Fiero, currently called The Falcon, though I'm looking for a better name. To wit:

Opinion PollI need an ass-kicking name for Margaret's Fiero. It's red (Fieros should have only come in red), Margaret bought it with her own money at a cost of $750, and she loves that car as much as I love the Mousemobile (and that is exactly as much as Pete loves The Count of Monte Carlo). Margaret attended East Kentwood High School in Kentwood, Michigan; they are the Falcons and thus the Fiero's current, somewhat uninspired name. Go to it, gentle readers! Surprise me.

Sunday, March 27, 2005

Jimmy Fallon Must DieThe blight otherwise known as Jimmy Fallon has joined forces with the hated Drew Barrymore to create an abomination of abominable proportions! Years before he became famous in the United States, Nick Hornby wrote a memoir titled Fever Pitch, chronicling his life through the lens of his devotion to Arsenal, the Premiereship soccer club. He lived and died at Highbury, Arsenal's home pitch (the English call a soccer field a "pitch," thus the title), often to the detriment of his personal life. The book is excellent, and I saw frightening shades of myself in it, though mercifully I have never known devotion as slavish as his to Arsenal.

There is a motion picture, soon to be released, starring Ms. Barrymore and Mr. Fallon and directed by the Farrelly bros., titled *shudder* Fever Pitch. The basic premise is that a Boston Red Sox fanatic (Fallon) must choose between the woman he loves (Barrymore) and the team he worships. Presumably, and here I am just guessing, he will realize that baseball is just a game and unimportant compared to one's relationhsips with actual people. The Internet Movie Database lists four pictures, this horror included, titled Fever Pitch (hyperlink). Sure, it's about a man overly devoted to a sports team, but perhaps that is a coincidence? They have pitching in baseball, right, thus explaining the title? Sadly, the truth takes a turn for the worse. The Fallon-Barrymore abomination is "based" on Hornby's Fever Pitch.

A bit of my faith in Mankind has abruptly expired, gone to the Great Beyond.

The relocation of High Fidelity from north London to Chicago is permissible because the protagonist Rob Gordon (in the novel, Rob Fleming) is a nearly unredeemable bastard and could not have been made sympathetic by any actor other than John Cusack, and I am dubious at the prospect of Mr. Cusack believably executing a British accent. The only way to translate the work to the screen was to shift the setting to America, and once here Chicago is preferable to either New York or Los Angeles. And yet for all the universality of his novels, Hornby is still a very British writer, and it was a triumph that the film version of About a Boy was set in its proper home, north London. Hugh Grant perfectly embodied playboy layabout Will Freeman.

And now? Now Fever Pitch, which is a memoir, not a novel, you rat finks, is to be about baseball? Not about mighty Arsenal, but rather the sad sack Red Sox? And directed by the infantile Farrelly bros.?! Blood will run. Make no mistake, I have by and large enjoyed the Farrellys' pictures, but Fever Pitch is a work of serious introspection and deserves better than to be butchered by men who titled a film about Siamese twins Stuck On You! And to gut the sports enthusiast's self-examination by making it a romantic comedy between *hurl* Jimmy Fallon and *retch* Drew Barrymore?! Truly, there is nothing sacred in this misbegotten world. I dearly hope Mr. Hornby is duly outraged.

As a side note, as little as I care about the Premiereship, the Gunners are my team, and were so long before I read Fever Pitch.

The New and Improved ResurrectionIt's Easter. Christ is risen. Indeed, He is risen. God, whatever you want to call Him - Adonai, Elohim, or Yahweh - commands the spilling of blood: He commanded Avraham to sacrifice Isaac (that He prevented the sacrifice is quite beside the point); on the high holy days the Temple flowed with the blood of innumerable animal sacrifices; Christ was a great teacher in life, but only in death did He defeat sin and save us all. (Why He permits/endorses violence and blood is another discussion altogether and quite beside our purpose.) So, for the purposes of saving souls, Good Friday is a more important day than Easter; and, after all, the cross is the symbol of Christianity, not an empty grave. Still, though sin died on the cross with Christ, without the Resurrection there would have been no Christianity, or it would have been perpetuated only as a minor sect of Judaism. The hard work was done on Good Friday, but Easter provides that needed touch of showmanship to convince all the doubting Thomases. *wink* A lot of people died on Roman crosses (including both Peter and Paul), but only two guys in all of history ever rose from the grave. (And the first, Lazarus, was just a bystander, since the second, Jesus, did all the work of both resurrections.) To make people believe that Jesus of Nazareth was the Christ, you needed Him to come back from the grave. (The bodily assumption into Heaven didn't hurt either, but that's not for a few weeks.)

So, it's Easter. A holy, holy, holy, holy day. Celebrate. For those of you who believe, I hope you had a good Holy Week; I know I sure did. (Though I still owe two Rosaries for some illicit snacking.) For those of you who don't believe, don't worry about it. Eat, drink and be merry, you'll have plenty of time to regret your disbelief in Perdition. ^_^

As a side note, and the product of coincidental timing, Father Bill reminded us during Good Friday Mass that Friday was the Feast of the Annunciation, one of only two feasts that may be observed during Lent. God planted a seed, the Archangel Gabriel told Mary that God needed her to do Him a solid, and nine months later a virgin, a woman immaculately born without Original Sin, gave birth to a bouncing baby Messiah. It's a hell of a faith, Christianity.

Saturday, March 26, 2005

All I want is a horrorshow girlflesh. What's so bad about that?

The New and Improved CrucifixionGood Friday: Kill that God!

Yesterday may have been the first Good Friday Mass I've attended. I certainly can't remember any other spectacle like what I encountered yesterday. The Mass clocked in at one hour forty-five minutes, 75% longer than a standard Mass. It was wickedly Catholic. Father Bill has been going easy on all the old people and allowing us to sit during the lengthy Gospels of the last few Sundays; yesterday's was the longest yet, but he said he thought it important that we stand throughout. He didn't explicitly say it, but he wanted us to imitate, in that small way, Christ's suffering; the nobility of suffering is very big in Catholicism right now, what with the Holy Father crumbling before our very eyes.

After the lengthy Gospel recounting the Passion, came the Veneration of the Cross. It worked a lot like Communion, as we shuffled up the the front by pews. Many people kissed the large crucifix set before the Altar, and two altar boys were ready with wipes for use after each kiss. I set my hand on the statue's foot and bowed on one knee, not feeling any great desire to kiss it. After the Veneration of the Cross came a incredibly long offering of prayers. Instead of the reading of a short list and the congregation responding "Lord, hear our prayer," Father led us through a lengthy, formalized list of wishes. In the middle of each, Deacon Corder called for us to kneel, and we all kneeled in silence for ten or twenty seconds. Then, we'd rise and Father Bill would read the rest of the request and we'd all say, "Lord, hear our prayer." We did this somewhere between ten and twelve times. It was gloriously eccentric, though quite hard, I imagine, for some of the more geriatric parishioners.

By this point, over an hour had elapsed and we hadn't yet begun the preparation of gifts. We had the Body during Communion, but not the Blood. There are some Catholics who refuse to take Communion from a eucharistic minister and will only accept it from a priest (I'm not sure how they feel about deacons). I'm not one of their number, but I still prefer receiving Communion from the priest. Yesterday, I received my wafer-turned-flesh from Father Bill. Score! So, I went to Mass on Good Friday, got to enjoy a wonderfully bizarre Catholic ritual, received Communion from the pastoral vicar, and went to Mass in blue jeans and Chuck Taylors without feeling guilty. Catholicism Wow!

Prior to Mass, I drove to Skeeter's home church, Faith Lutheran, for a very powerful piece of music entitled "The Seven Last Words Jesus Spoke," or something like that. She recommended it highly. So, I've now been inside a Lutheran church, a Baptist church, a Presbyterian church, and the Episcopalian National Cathedral in D.C., and maybe one of two others for various concerts by the Mountain of Love. Man, being inside a Protestant church is weird. When people came in, they just walked right up to a pew and sat down. They didn't bow before the Altar (or is it an altar in Protestanism?) and they certainly didn't make the sign of the cross. Just walked in a plopped down without any ceremony. No one knelt down in prayer upon arrival because the pews didn't have any kneelers! Obviously, this means Lutherans don't kneel. How can it feel like church if you never kneel?

And then they ended up not playing the song. I assume they planned to do so at that evening's services, but there was nothing spectacular about that afternoon's music. All in all, it was a very odd experience. Like most Protestant churches, it was small and dark, maybe one third the size of Holy Redeemer, which afterwards felt cavernous and bright. And I'm not trying to be mean when I say Faith was dark, it's just that it was dimly illuminated. The stained glass windows were pretty, but admitted little light. Had there been more people in attendance, I can see how the church might feel cozy. But I like big churches; so, it felt small.

There is a Catholic church near the U of M campus, St. Mary Students' Parish, but I hate it there. I went sporatically during my first few years in Ann Arbor, partially because I was away from home for the first time and partiallyb ecause I really didn't like going to St. Mary. It was small and the music was played on acoustic guitars, not an organ. They served torn up chunks of bread, not Communion wafers. The church itself was almost Spartan inside; it felt much more like a Protestant church than a Catholic church. During my second and third years at 1213, with ready access to ample parking, I drove out to St. Francis on East Stadium, a larger church filled with families that felt much more like Holy Redeemer. I felt comfortable at St. Francis, and so I attended Mass more regularly.

In DreamsLast night, I had a dream about the actor Natasha Melnick. She's only twenty; so, fortunately in my dream she appeared as she does in her forthcoming film Everything or Nothing, not as she did five years ago on Freaks and Geeks. That would have been very, very wrong. But whew, I'm in the clear. And my Bog, she is lovely.

I had a very good Good Friday, wicked holy. But, I shan't discuss it now.

You know what's great about being me? Certainty of purpose. In my experience, Frank Miller is 2-1 good over bad. Batman: Year One is legendary; Batman: The Dark Knight Returns is overrated, but still pretty good; and The Dark Knight Strikes Again is just about the worst comic I've ever read. I'm intrigued by the commercials for the movie Frank Miller's Sin City, and the cast seems top notch, but I will never see the film. Ever. Why? Because of one simple line in the commercials: "Special Guest Director Quentin Tarantino." I hate that arrogant cuntrag.

Thursday, March 24, 2005

Hopeless Savages: B-Sides - The Origin of the Dusted Bunnies came out yesterday! And it was only one week behind schedule! Hurrah! "Oni Press - Because schedules are for the unimaginative." As I've said before, I like superhero comics, but I live for Blue Monday. And Hopeless Savages is the only other book in Blue Monday's league.

The Perfect LesbianI think I'm going to expand King of Prussia from seven to eight members; so, Rose will only be co-lead vocals, not co-lead vocals and Moog. Halfway there:

Parker - vox, bassRose - voxReza - trumpetPetra - drums

I remembered that I liked the name Petra for King of Prussia's drummer. I remembered Petra, but had forgotten the drummer part; so, I named Parker and Mary's mom Petra, and thus the title of King of Prussia's first album, Songs For Petra. But I like Petra best for the drummer chick, the girl to whom Parker lost his virginity. I'll have to come up with a new name for Mrs. Peppard. Speaking of which, I should probably come up with a name for Mr. Peppard, too.... The new tentative title for the first album is Radio Free Prussia.** In addition, the "farewell" EP is no longer titled Peace On Earth, Purity Of Essence. P.O.E. is a great reference to Dr. Strangelove, but I'm just not comfortable using such a direct pop culture reference as an album title. The Mountain and I hate it when bands use a single song as the title of an entire album. It is an inexcusable waste of the opportunity to come up with a unique and interesting name. I feel the same way about P.O.E., P.O.E. It's a great phrase, but just lifting it seems like taking the easy way out. The farewell EP's new tentative title is The Intermission EP... or maybe Let's All Go to the Lobby. Hmmmmm.

**Radio Free Prussia is not just a reference to the Cold War radio service Radio Free Europe (we broadcast news and information into the Eastern Bloc, hoping to shed some light on Communism's lies). I have titled two (or four) Newsletter columns "Radio Free Wilson," the original three-part "Radio Free Wilson" from the fall of 2001 (my second, third, and fourth Newsletter columns) and the belated sequel "Radio Free Wilson '04" from the fall of 2004. (I intend to make it a recurring column, with "Radio Free Wilson '05" planned for later this year and so on.)

Also, I complied ten mixtape CDs for Never Girl when she moved to California, five of ska songs, five of punk, and titled them Radio Free Wilson. When I presented them, there were three of us at the table, Never Girl, SSG, and me. Never Girl seemed touched. I got up to go to the bathroom and she followed, intercepting me out of sight of SSG. She thanked me again and then kissed me. I'd wanted to kiss her for a year and half; I wanted nothing more in the world than to taste her lips. And here she was, kissing me. It was one of the worst moments of my life. Dear Bog, I wish she hadn't done that. I was already a mess beforehand. That kiss wrecked me.

I want King of Prussia to sound like a mix of Dance Hall Crashers and The Hippos.

The New and Improved CrucifixionI made goulash tonight. Yummy, though mine never tastes as good as Mom's. Odd, that. And not fearing arrest at the hands of the Romans, I didn't even need to use a secret sign to be admitted to dinner. Woot! I hope I can make it to Mass tomorrow, the most... bizarrely named of all Christian religious holidays. The day they killed God is called Good Friday. I mean, yeah, it's good for us, that's why he died, but still. It seems a little insensitive. The day they put nails through Christ's hands is Good Friday. Why not Holy Friday? Too generic? Didn't want to have another "holy" right after Holy Thursday?

If nothing else, the name Good Friday is proof that God knows how to take a joke.

Wednesday, March 23, 2005

The New and Improved CrucifixionEvangelical nutjobs are always asking, "Have you accepted Jesus as your personal Lord and Savior?" For starters, Christ is the Lord, not just my Lord, and He is the Messiah, the savior of all whole world, which I suppose includes me. So, yes and no; He is my Lord and Savior without there being anything personal about it. I find the notion of a "personal" relationship with Christ hard to swallow. First of all, He died for my sins. While He was up on the cross dying one of the worst deaths ever devised, He was paying the price for sins I wouldn't commit for almost two thousand years. And because He did, when I die I can go to Heaven. How am I supposed to have a personal relationship with the man who died for what I've done wrong? Given the opportunity, I doubt I could even look Him in the eye without collapsing into a sobbing heap, much less have a few beers or watch a football game or any of the other things people do with those they know personally.

Secondly, He's God. You know, God, the guy who said, "Let there be light" and there was light. He called the universe into existence with a word! I am, to say the least, intimidated. And Christ is not just God, He is a man, too. During his life, He had diarrhea and got splinters and stubbed His toes in the dark. The power to call the universe into existence with a word contained in a guy who scratches His arse? Frankly, that scares the daylights out of me. I have a hard time imaging a personal relationship, a friendship even, with anyone who scares me silly. So, no, I have not "accepted Jesus as my personal Lord and Savior," because I owe Him too much to be His friend and because He frightens me more than anything else in the world.

As a third point, I find the notion of "a personal relationship with Jesus" rather offensive. Who the fuck do you think you are? Jesus is your buddy? He's your boyfriend? By Lucifer's beard, show some respect! He DIED for you! He had nails put through His hands for you! He is God! He created the universe! Have enough respect for the man to address Him by His title, the Christ. It is more than a little presumptive to casually call Him Jesus, as if He's just another guy you know. I worship Christ, which rather precludes a mere friendship.

Anyhoo, tomorrow is Holy Thursday, the day of the Last Supper, the last full day of Lent. Ballpark one thousand nine hundred twenty-four years ago, a very nice man, the nicest to ever live, in fact, was about the enjoy the last full day of His life. He was away from His home, having come to be near the Temple, then the literal center of the Jewish faith. He was about to be betrayed by His people, and put to death by their Roman overlords. But before all that unpleasantness, He would have a nice meal with His twelve closest friends, knowing full well that one of them was about to sell Him for thirty pieces of silver, but sharing His hospitality nevertheless. Just something to think about when you're enjoying your tacos tomorrow.

The Revenge BeginsVolume II of Star Wars: Clone Wars rolls on. Through the first three of five episodes, it's wicked cool.

Monday, March 21, 2005

Volume II of Star Wars: Clone Wars premiered tonight; the twenty mini-episodes of Volume I are coming out on DVD tomorrow. There are less than two months until the release of Star Wars: Episode III - Revenge of the Sith. What a time to be alive.

The New and Improved CrucifixionDuring his brief career as the Messiah, Jesus was followed by the twelve Apostles: Simon Peter (the Pope!) and Andrew; James and John, the sons of Zebedee; Philip; Bartholomew; Matthew; doubting Thomas; other James; Simon the Zealot; Thaddaeus; Judas Iscariot. Or, as I like to call them, the twelve idiots. I mean, these guys walked around with Jesus; called Him "Rabbi" (so, one would assume they were at least trying to pay attention); saw Him eat, drink, sleep, and poo; and still didn't figure out He was the Son of Man until He told them! And even then, they needed convincing. These schmucks were in the presence of God - not the way you and I are in the presence of God, they could physically shake His hand - but they weren't sure of Him until He was resurrected. They were the Apostles, but they didn't believe until they put their fingers in the holes in His hands; two thousand years later, we're supposed to just believe. That's one of the things I struggled with when I was young and stupid and flirted with agnosticism. Now, I just accept that while the twelve idiots may not have been all that bright, but they were the right guys in the right place at the right time.

King David had Uriah the Hittite killed so that he could fuck the widow. The Apostles doubted Jesus at every turn, but still had the honor of knowing Christ. God plays favorites. It isn't fair and it doesn't seem right, but He does. That's the way it is.

The TreasuryFor a few months now, I've had more money in my bank account than I owe as debt. It's a pretty cool feeling. I mean, doing so would basically wipe me out, but if I so chose I could eliminate all my debts tomorrow. Woot! Quite a change from when I left Ann Arbor, unable to cover my rent or pay for groceries. The one concrete advantage of living at home: I have essentially no living expenses.

Sunday, March 20, 2005

The New and Improved CrucifixionAt Mass today, I almost cried during the Passion play. In my parish, the high school student group, dressed in black and wearing mimeface, acts out the Passion while one of their number, dressed in usual church clothes, narrates. They haven't done this my whole life, but I can't specifically tell you when they started. Maybe when I was in middle school (1990-1993)? I can't remember the last time I heard a traditional Gospel reading on Palm Sunday. Jesus, Pontius Pilate, Barrabus, Simon the Cyrenian, the gang's all there. Oddly enough, The L.A.W. took part when she was in high school. Anyway, it's wicked powerful; so, keep your snickers to yourself.

I've got a newly blessed palm; last week, I went to confession for the first time since the early Clinton Administration and Mom and I attended stations of the cross; today, I bought a Tootsie role from the Knights of Columbus (I can't eat it until next Sunday); and now it's Holy Week. Plus, this week I'm going to put together "The Religion Issue" of The Newsletter, intentionally timed to coincide with Easter. Like most of us, I have neglected Easter for most of my life. The only perfect human being to have ever lived was executed for the sins of all the world; three days later, He was resurrected. But because we only get chocolate and not scandalous heaps of presents, Easter takes a backseat to Christmas. Weak. So, I am going to make as big a deal as I can out of Holy Week and Easter.

Start likin' it.

BracketologyMy picks are doing ridiculously bad in the Big Dance, but that's okay. I used up my lifetime allotment of good tournament luck the year I successfully picked Duke over Arizona, incorrectly guessed the final score by only one point, and won the 1213 house pool. Woot!

Thursday, March 17, 2005

The previous post took four attempts on two different HALs before it worked. In response to similar problems being encountered by many Blogger users, the cuntrags at Google posted that they, too, are suffering from the "slowness" problem, as many of them have personal blogs. They, sharing our pain, are diligently working on the problem. If that's true, you guys are really, really, massively, and just unbelievably bad at your jobs. You guys suck at what you do. I mean, shit, I know nothing about HAL programming, but given your startling lack of progress there's no conceivable way I could do any worse. And I'd do it cheap, too.

So, here's another heartfelt prayer that every single person at Google with even a little bit of responsibility for Blogger bleeds from their eyes every day for the rest of their lives until they die at a ripe old age. Bleed from your eyes, you bastards, and I hope your children get picked on at school.

What the hell? "...keeping dynamite in homes, though illegal, is common in China...."

House of IdiotsThe United States remains locked in a deadly struggle with anti-democratic forces around the globe. Vital portions of our infrastructure (chemical refineries come to mind) remain perilously vulnerable to potential terrorist attack. Innocent people are starving and being violently slaughtered in the Darfur region of Sudan. We have an ever-increasing trade deficit with the People's Republic of China. Petroleum prices are near all-time highs (those highs being set just days ago), and yet our economy remains utterly dependent on petroleum. It seems as if the war in the Democratic Republic of the Congo will never end. Jerry Falwell is still allowed to walk to streets free of the threat of immediate arrest and public execution for the crime of being an idiot and hate-monger.

All this is going on and yet Congress has nothing better to do than question Mark McGwire about his freakishly inhuman physique? Balderdash! At this point I would like to renew my call for the repeal of Article I of the United States Constitution, thus replacing Congress with a legislative body composed of the cast of Scrubs. Zach Braff for Speaker of the House!

Bitching About My MomI will never never never never in a million years understand what goes on inside my mother's head. On Tuesday, she mentioned that her boss wanted to get rid of a queen-sized mattress and box spring; we could put it in the Mountain's room! Her tone suggested that these items would be the key to solving a puzzle that had confounded me and thwarted my schemes for quite some time. Me, I hardly gave a rat's arse what bed was in my brother's room. On Wednesday, she announced with glee that the mattress and box spring were ours for the claiming. This evening after everyone got home from work, Meine Vater and I took the Woody over to her boss's house, strapped the merchandise onto the roof, threw an ornate bed frame into the back, and drove it all home at 20 m.p.h. Of course, a lot of my stuff is stored in the Mountain's room and in the year and a half I have been home I have been slowly but surely organizing it all. A place for everything and everything in its place, I say. The tolerances between objects (the existing bed and my boxes of comics, the dresser and a shelving unit) were very precise, very tight. Now with a queen bed to replace the existing twin, the entire arrangement is obsolete.

So, my darling mother has a new mattress and box spring, apparently the key to her happiness, and I am left with the unenviable task of reordering the entire room. This is what I hate about my mother, and here I really do mean HATE. She devises these projects, but then does not lift a single blasted finger to bring them to fruition. Neither my dad nor I wanted a queen-sized bed in that room, she did. Yet Dad and I had to strap it to the Woody and once home haul it up the stairs, not her. I thought the room was fine the way it way, she didn't. Yet, I am the one who is going to have to spend hours culling through what's in there to get rid of as much as possible and then rearrange the rest to fit the new bed, not her. She originated this project, she made sure it happened, and yet she hasn't done and won't do any of the work involved, not one little bit.

Wednesday, March 16, 2005

President WASPThe United States of America is the world's most successful multicultural society. One is tempted to say Canada, except for the pesky Anglophone/Francophone divide. American society is far from perfect, Lord kows, and we have not yet succeeded in eradicating racial, ethnic, and religious bigotry, but I say that we have been more successful than any other society in history.

That said, why is it that only white males with British surnames get elected President of the United States? There have been forty-three presidents with thirty-eight different last names. Three presidents had Dutch names (two of them from the same extended family), two had German names, and two were Micks, but all the others have had arguably English or Scottish names. John Kerry (Irish-ish) was not elected, but he came damned close. Would he have done as well had his family name not been changed from Kohn?

And tomorrow? The one day a year when it is okay, encouraged even, to disparage the culture and traditions of an entire people. Saint Patrick's Day, when the entire country comes together to belittle the Irish. May you all choke on your green beer.

Gaius Julius CaesarOn this day 2,049 years ago, G. Julius Caesar, dictator of Rome, was assassinated by a group of ambitious senators. Life is a fleeting thing; even the most freakishly long-lived humans will only life 120 or 130 years. Even today, surrounded by medical marvels and technological terrors, the average lifespan is less than 80 years. Yes, the spirit lives forever, either in the torturous flames of Hell or, after a varyingly brief layover in Purgatory, in the unimaginable bliss of Heaven, but that is a pahse of life no one who has not yet shed this mortal coil can truly understand. So, life is a fleeting thing; fame more fleeting still. Shakespeare helped quite a bit, but one must still marvel at the accomplishments of Julius Caesar that his legend still flourishes over 2,000 years after his death. And we remember the exact day he died. It's a hell of a thing. Hail Caesar!

So Very, Very OldI am not bragging, not (this time) boasting of my moral supremacy, this is just how the story begins: I went to confession today, and had a very odd time. Admittedly, I had not been to confession since I was confirmed in eighth grade, but it was not the unfamiliarity that struck me as odd. I sat down across from Father Bill and he tried to guess some of the details of my life. I was nervous; check. I had been Catholic for a long time; check, since baptism. I had not been to confession in a very long time; check, see above. So, I started cataloging my myriad sins. At this point, Father guessed my age. "You're in your thirties...." WHAT?! I'm twenty-five, motherfucker! In my thirties? My older sister isn't even thirty yet! What in the high holy hell?

Seriously, folks, aside from the fact that most of you know me, how old do you think I am? If you didn't know me and hadn't just read that I'm twenty-five. I mean, yeah, I'm fat and my fellow Blue Tree Whackers and I had joked for a long time that I have the body of a forty-seven year old, but what the hell? Am I right in thinking Father Bill must be on something? I was wearing blue jeans and my Chuck Taylors, and had the sleeves of my fleece pushed up, partially exposing my tattoo. If anything, I thought the problem was that I dressed too "young." In my thirties?! I'm not the only one who thinks that was an odd guess, right? Right?

Monday, March 14, 2005

The World and Things In It{China} The new "law" passed by the Chinese government has almost no practical effect on the fear and loathing in the Strait of Taiwan. However, it should serve as notice to all the Pollyannas out there, like Thomas P.M. Barnett, who was a good thinker before he became drunk on his own celebrity, that there are still powerful hardline elements within the PRC leadership, elements who see reunification with Taiwan as being essential to China's dignity and prestige. War between the United States and China over Taiwan would be worse for China than for the US, but that doesn't guarantee such a war won't happen. Let us just hope the new anti-secession law will satisfy the hardliners and assuage their fears for the time being.

{Lebanon} In your face, Hezbollah! Daniel Schorr, the senior news analyst at NPR (and the worst Dan left in the mainstream media now that Rather has retired in disgrace), used last week's pro-Syria Hezbollah rally to say that no democratic progress would be possible in Lebanon (nor the entire Middle East) and that the demonstrations following Hariri's assassination would come to naught. O ye of little faith. Today's anti-Syria rally was the largest yet! Freedom kicks ass. First, get the Syrians out of the Beka Valley. Then, get rid of President Emile Lahoud, whose term-in-office was illegaly extended at Syria's behest. (The extension is what prompted the late Mr. Hariri's resignation as prime minister.) And lastly, as this will be the truly difficult part, disarm Hezbollah. And when those three thigs have been accomplished, Lebanon may once again be a land of milk and honey.

{The Sudan} The genocide continues in Darfur, even if the UN, which did such a bang-up job in rwanda, lacks the moral courage to use the word "genocide." There simply aren't enough African Union troops to protect the entire population fromteh janjaweed. This indifference to massive death in Africa, just as the world ignored Rwanda and continues to ignore the war in DR Congo, has been my greatest disappointment in President Bush. Send the Marines to Darfur, damn it! People are dying!

Saturday, March 12, 2005

Wherever you are, if you are able, immediately rent or buy the House of Cards trilogy, a trio of miniseries from the BBC about a magnificently monstrous British politician, Francis Urquhart.

House of CardsTo Play the KingThe Final Cut

Don't ask questions, just do it. And for those of you fortunate enough to read The Newsletter, be on the lookout for an "Idiot Box" review of House of Cards. If you do not receive The Newsletter but would like more information, email sonofthenewsletter@yahoo.com.

The SpaniardsYesterday was the first anniversary of the horrific Madrid train bombings. 3/11, as it is known, as been called "Europe's 9/11." I find the comparison apt. After 9/11, America struck back. After 3/11, Spain stepped back. America embarked upon a global War on Terror, toppling despotic regimes in Afgahnistan and Iraq. Spain capitulated to terror, withdrawing it's support for the transition to democracy in Iraq. By our very nature, the American attitude has always been fundamentally different than the European. We suffer from the ancient Chinese curse of living in interesting times; interesting times have few virtues, but amng them is the revelation of true character. When push comes to shove, America stands up to bullies; in the same circumstances, Europe gives the bully its lunch money.

There is never an excuse for terrorism, but I feel that you should try to be good at whatever field of endeavor you choose. Some Basques have chosen terrorism as the means to further their nationalist ambitions; however, ETA is an inept terrorist group. ETA phones in threats before it's bombs detonate, allowing plenty of time for evacuation and thus minimizing casualties. The result? There is no independent Basque homeland. Al Qaeda is an effective terrorist. Al Qaeda wanted Spanish troops out of Iraq; so, they didn't give any warning before their bombs detonated on the Madrid commuter trains. Two hundred people died. The result? Spanish troops were withdrawn from Iraq. If I were in ETA, I would learn the lesson of this: kill enough Spaniards and the survivors will give you whatever you want. The Spanish people are contemptable cowards, but that does not mean I want more of them to die. I'm just pointing out that if ETA starts killing more people, it will make great progress toward creating an independent Basque homeland.

The MisogynistAlso yesterday, a man on trial for rape and several other charges escaped from a Fulton County, Georgia courthouse. In the course of his escape, he killed three people (and a fourth while on the lam). He has since been recaptured and, since he will now be facing murder charges, is now worse off than he was yesterday morning. Idiot.

Anywho, while watching the news last night, it was mentioned that the suspect had escaped by overpowering a female bailiff and taking her gun. Dad scoffed. I rolled my eyes and told him I was sure than in all of human history no male police officer had ever had his gun taken away from him. He turned to me and angrily said he resented what I was implying. I looked him in the eye and I said I was absolutely implying what he thought I was. I mean, dear Bog, what else could he have possibly meant? He scoffed when it was mentioned that the officer from whom the gun had been taken had been female. That scoff signalled his comtempt, and his surity that the now-recaptured suspect never could have taken a gun away from a male officer. Was he always been this horrible a misogynist and I never noticed, or is it another symptom of the madness that has been consuming him for the last several years?

Grandpa Wilson, may he rest in peace, died in December 1999. That's when Meine Vater started going crazy. 9/11 accelerated his transformation from regular asshole to full-on archconservative, gay-bashing, Muslim-hating, misogynistic, xenophobic fascist. The one thing that makes me feel better is the knowledge that he hasn't been to church since he was a kid and, for all his modern chauvenism about Christendom, he isn't really a Christian; so, at least when he dies he's going to Hell. That makes me feel much better, though I do wish he'd hurry up and get it over with.

The QueueBased on a several year-old recommendation from The Professor, I am going to read Ayn Rand. I've heard from at least two separate sources that anyone who reads Ayn Rand is an asshole for at least a month afterward; so, I want to see (a) what that's like and (b) if it's any different from the asshole I normally am. Thus, the queue:

Thursday, March 10, 2005

For the ModernsI like superhero comics, but I live for Chynna Clugston-Major's Blue Monday. The fourth and final issue of the latest series, Painted Moon, came out yesterday, and it was perfect. Bleu's confession to Mr. Bishop; Victor and Clover (though Painted Moon is set before their first kiss in Lovecats); the revelation of the "match made in Hell," Erin and Alan... there's nothing else like Blue Monday. My collection, listed in chronological story order, not publication order:

The three one-shots are collected, for those who are interested, in the trade Blue Monday: Inbetween Days. And you should all be interested, because Blue Monday is amazing. It's one of the principle inspirations for In Search of the Perfect Lesbian. I will count myself fortunate if I can ever write anything half as good. Coming early next year, and about this I am wicked exicted, Blue Monday: Thieves Like Us! Thank you, Chynna!

The Perfect Lesbian - TimelineThe "Distant" Past - Just after the New Year: Margaret starts dating Mark Greenwald. She is upfront about being a virgin and tell him she won't sleep with him until she's "ready." Late Spring: Svetlana Kamenskaya breaks up with Scipio so that she could date Ari Vronsky; she did nothing inappropriate and didn't start seeing Ari until after she'd dumped Scipio.

Friday, October 23 - Margaret's boyfriend Mark tells her he is spending the night hanging out with his roommate Ari. In reality, Ari spends the night with his girlfriend Svetlana, and Mark has a secret rendezvous/tryst with his ex-girlfriend "Jennifer Davies" (the first name might change; the last name will definitely change, as I already have too many English surnames). Mark and Jennifer sleep together; he justifies it as a meaningless fling to relieve the months of celibacy he's endured while dating Margaret, but feels some pangs of guilt.

Saturday, October 24 - Homecoming - Mark picks Margaret up at her dorm and escorts her, Mary, and Stacey down to 1213 (Pete, Scipio, Parker, and Brandy's house) for parking-and-tailgating. The whole gang heads to the Big House and enjoys a Homecoming victory. After the game, Mark takes Margaret back to his apartment and confesses. Margaret explodes. She punches him in the nose, kicks him in the junk, and storms off. Feeling betrayed and thinking herself a fool, Margaret puts on a short skirt and tight shirt, leaves her panties at home, and heads off to a party at the Pikes' house. There, she loses her virginity to Jeremy Metz. Tra la la la la. Arriving back at her dorm room, she finds "do not enter" written in the white board and hears the sounds of Stacey and her boyfriend, Roger. In the rain, she trudges down to 1213 and falls asleep on the couch in Pete's room.

Sunday, October 25 - Mark calls Margaret; it does not go well.

Saturday, October 31 - The Halloween Party - After a mostly bad week, containing the supershort story "Before the Perfect Lesbian," Mary compells Margaret to attend the famed 1213 Halloween party. Margaret is doing her best not to enjoy herself when she hears a cry of delight from behind her, "Omigod, are you Dorothy?! Are you R. Dorothy Wayneright?" She turns around and beholds the most intoxicating girl she's ever seen, Kari Putterman. It brings Margaret no end of delight that Kari actually knows what her costume is. They talk for a few minutes and when Kari goes back to her friends, Margaret begins to think there might be something to this "perfect lesbian" theory of Pete's.

Tuesday, November 3 - Margaret's day is made when she gets hit with a book in the back of the head: it's Kari, announcing that they have a lecture together, though they hadn't known each other before they met at the Halloween party.

Wednesday, November 11 - Armistice Day - Svetlana and Scipio have dinner, an attempt to restore some semblence of a friendship after months of tension. Ari takes adventage of Svetlana's absence to committ suicide, hanging himself in her apartment.

I want to see the new Revenge of the Sith trailer as much as anyone, but I am not going to suffer through The O.C. for it. I am not known for my patience, but I can wait for the trailer to be available through Hyperspace.

My apologies, dear readers, but once again Blogger iteself has spoiled my mood. Every fucking time I try to log in, I am left hanging while the pages take forever to load and then mysteriously crap out mere seconds away from succeeding. The fucknutters at Blogger say the best thing to do is completely shut down my browser; so, I do, and then try to log in again. This still takes a great deal of time and by the time I finally get to the create a post phase, I have lost whatever train of that it was that lead me to want to post in the first place. All I can think about is murder. Fuckers! I hope they bleed from their eyes.

And the world being as it is, of course these problems have to arise when I have oodles of free time and should be posting quite profusely. Bleed from your eyes you cuntrag sacks of filth.

Wednesday, March 9, 2005

The Hawai'yetiThe Flying Dutchman lived at 1213 during the last or three years there. We hatched a scheme whereby fame, fortune, and femmes would all be ours: we would become world-famous adventurers. We invited Neutral Man, but he declined, perfering a sedate life of teaching and suburban boredom. We were going to travel the globe collecting rare items and solving ancient mysteries. We'd discover the lost city of Atlantis (and, if we had time, the lost city of Atlanta), find the body of Jimmy Hoffa, and capture the legendary Abominable Snowman (a.k.a. yeti). I'd romance our sexy British anthropologist while The Flying Dutchman would find true love with a beautiful Hawai'ian girl and introduce her to a larger world of adventure and renown. Hawai'i, you say? Yes, Hawai'i. You see, the Abominable Snowman is the big leagues, one of the most famous and formidable of all Earth's mythical creatures. I mean, dude, half his name is abominable (abominable adj. - inequivocally detestable; loathsome). You can't pursue the yeti your first time out of the gate. You'll get you whole team killed, ripped to shreds. ("...to shreds, you say.") So, we'd warm up by capturing the little known and hardly abominable Hawai'yeti! I mean, no one's abominable in Hawai'i. It's paradise! So, we'd use the Hawai'yeti as a preseason, use the publicity to cover our start-up costs, maybe get a sweet belafonte-esque boat to get around in, and embark on lives of "high adventure, rich living, and hard dying." Adventure today!

I wanted to make a long post, but Blogger is fucking up (YET AGAIN) and I don't know when it will stop working entirely.

I don't want the shiftless motherfuckers at the Blogger division of Google dead, oh no. I want them to live long full lives, each of them to die at the ripe old age of eighty-eight. But I also hope they spend every day betwen now and then bleeding from their eyes.

Potomac FeverIn her own way, my mom is every bit as divorced from reality as my dad. She talks about "The Corporations" and "The Companies" as if they are aliens come to this world to destroy us all. Um, Mom? You know Meijer, where you shop at least once a week? That's a corporation. The lady that cuts and colors your hair? She's a company. Your bosses? They're incorporated. Corporations and companies are everywhere, they are us, the people you love and the places you go. When she talks about "The Corporations" and "The Companies," she sounds like a crazy person. She sounds like her husband.

Is inevitable madness the curse of every Wilson? I must watch the Mountain of Love and The L.A.W. closely.

The QueueDouglas Adams, The Hitchhiker's Guide to the GalaxyDouglas Adams, The Restaurant at the End of the UniverseDouglas Adams, Life, the Universe, and EverythingDouglas Adams, So Long, and Thanks for All the FishDouglas Adams, "Young Zaphod Plays It Safe"Douglas Adams, Mostly HarmlessRobert Louis Stevenson, The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde ***in progress***Bram Stoker, DraculaLeslie Charteris, something from the libraryThomas Harris, Black SundayThomas Harris, Hannibal

Monday, March 7, 2005

malingerv. - to feign illness or other incapacity in order to avoid duty or work.

Meine Vater has impeccable timing. He just happens to hurt his back so that he's around the house on the one day of spring break the Mountain was supposed to be home alone. And after moving without difficulty all weekend long, up and down the stairs, around the house, nary a sign of pain or discomfort, he just happens to "overdo it" the first day of my week off and thus stay home. Good thing I jetted for Ann Arbor, because if I had to be in the house with him all day it would have absolutely ruined my mood. He's a sorry sack of shit, but he does have his talents.

Ain't Life Grand?Me First and the Gimme Gimmes T-shirt? checkJones Soda (Blue Bubble Gum)? checkA beautiful girl in a short skirt? el zilcho

Okay, so, life doesn't meet all three requirements for grandness, but as Jack Nicholson sez in Mars Attacks!, "two out of three... and that's ain't bad." Plus, depending on how one looks at things, I'm not wearing a short skirt, which would surely be a bad thing for all involved; so, surely that deserves some consideration. Official verdict? Life is grand!

Though it would be nice to have a cute girl here with me....

The fortune on my Jones Soda reads, "There are good times ahead of you." Kind of vague, okay, meaninglessly vague, but when it is ever a bad thing to be told good times are ahead? Life is grand, and no one is going to rain on my parade.

Sunday, March 6, 2005

The Perfect LesbianParker formed King of Prussia when he was 15 years old and about to graduate from high school. Everyone in the band is at least a couple years older than him except Reza, the trumpet player. Reza did his homework in the tour van on his parents' condition that he go to college as soon as he would normally have. So, King of Prussia hit the road for four years, touring constantly and releasing two albums, Songs For Petra (tentative title) and Hohenzollern. As a temporary farewell to the fans, they released an EP, Peace On Earth, Purity Of Essence. The best known song off Songs For Petra is "Dexter/Sinister." Many people mistake it for a romantic song. It is a love song, after a fashion, but it isn't romantic: Parker wrote it for Mary. Parker has several tattoos, including "Dexter" written in script on his right wrist; Mary has only one, "Sinister" in script across her left wrist.

I woke up this morning at 7:16 needing to piss like a race horse. So, when I went back to sleep, of course I dreamt. I was in a bar with Skeeter, Reed, and Nicky the Greek (an odd grouping). It was a very strange bar. It was the size of a warehouse, with crowded rows of picnic tables stretching unbroken from end to end. It was dimly lit with pleasantly thick clouds of cigarette smoke hanging in a air, just as a bar should be. We were seated at a table that was pushed too close to the bar; I was sitting simultaneously at the bar and our table. I spent most of my time chatting with the bartender as my companions spread out to talk to others and then returned. We remember odd details in dreams: I had eight beers. A cute blonde girl sat at our table and tried to sell us a $40 martini; she was in the employ of an alcohol manufacturer and was there to persuade people to buy the $40 martinis. She stuck around long after we made it clear none of us were going to buy a $40 martini. She didn't seem to mind. I think she liked me, because she asked me if Skeeter and I were dating and seemed pleased when I answered no. Then again, maybe she liked Skeeter.... She asked me something, but because of the bar noise (people were having a good time) I didn't quite catch it and asked her to repeat it. I leaned closer to her and she leaned in closer to me. Our faces were only inches apart. She started to open her mouth when my alarm clock exploded into the cacophony otherwise known as the theme music to NPR's The Splendid Table.

I had kind of a rough day today. First, the Mountain went back to Ann Arbor, and then I had to shovel Wilson Field. On the other hand, I watched the last 2/3 of The 4400, which was wicked sweet. (Ira Behr, you genius!) I've very excited for the second "season" in June. All in all, I guess today wasn't so bad, but it does profoundly suck that David was only here for a day. Lousy opera, always stealing my brother away....

I've got next week off; so, expect more posting. (I know you're on the edge of your seat. **insert chirping crickets here**) An In Search of the Perfect Lesbian timeline? The secrets of Samuel Bubbles Sink Cat Wilson? The return of Michael Patrick Doughnut Shark? Ancient mysteries revealed? An exclusive interview with the reclusive Hawai'yeti (the yeti of Hawai'i)? Do you know the Muffin Man? Fun fun fun.

Thursday, March 3, 2005

Opinion PollAnd the winner is... Svetlana. Very good arguments were put forth for both Anya and Svetlana, and Anya is such an amazingly beautiful name I hope to one day use it for one of my own daughters, but I know that Svetlana is right. I am thickheaded and not nearly as clever as I would like to believe I am, but in this world of woe and wonder I have at the very least learned to go with my gut. And my gut sez Svetlana is the girl for Scipio.

Too bad she broke his heart, the one many people doubted he even had....

My thanks to you all for your thoughts and opinions. It means a great deal to me. I am thinking of posting a timeline of In Search of the Perfect Lesbian to help everyone get a better sense of the story, and a list of the dramatis personae to once again thoroughly confuse the issue. Because I still believe in the old BTW motto, "Alienate the audience."

Hello, KittySam has been very bitey the past couple of days. I am assuming this is a good thing, since friskiness is generally a symptom of good, or at least improving, health.

Wednesday, March 2, 2005

Ha ha! Thanks to the modern marvel of internet commerce, I have acquired the last five issues of Starman that were missing from my collection. I now possess all eighty-one (#0-80) issues of James Robinson's masterpiece. And that makes me better than you. Just accept it. The Starman is mine! Bwa ha ha ha ha ha!

Tuesday, March 1, 2005

The Suddenly Offensive Anthony KennedyIn a 5-4 decision, ye olde Supreme Court has said that the states cannot execute murderers who have the good sense to be 16 or 17 when they commit first degree murder. Tell me, when you were 16 did you know that murder was wrong? Anywho, the legal merits of executing minors can be debated in good faith by reasonable people of differing viewpoints. I take issue with this ruling for the following two reasons:

{Ein} Last year, the Supreme Court struck down, I believe, Washington state's sentencing guidelines on the grounds that juries should impose the harshest sentences, not judges. Again, reasonable people can debate the merits, but as a whole the ruling is all fine and good. Juries should impose sentences, not judges. Now, wait a second, the death sentences that the Court overthrew today were imposed by juries, not judges. So, now judges should impose sentences, not juries? Make up your minds, you sanctimonious pricks. You can have it one way or the other, not both.

{Zwei} In his majority opinion, the normally dull and inoffensive Justice Anthony Kennedy said that the several states cannot execute minors because of international public opinion. What the hell? The United States is almost alone in the international community in executing 16 year-old murderers, and therefore we shouldn't do it, either? Someone please tell me where in the ever-lovin' United States Constitution it sez that the Supreme Court's job is to make sure we conform to the wide world's norms. Please, I'm honestly asking. When the Constitution was written in 1787, we were the only real democracy on the face of the earth. (England had Parliament, but George III still wielded considerable governmental power.) Does that mean that the Constitution shouldn't have been allowed, because it violated international norms?

I'm excited, though, because now Anthony Kennedy is my least favorite Justice. I didn't have one before. Hooray! If Justice Kennedy was on fire, I would go get some gasoline, and then marshmellows. If someone where to stab him in the eyes, I would visit them in prison to express my most heartfelt thanks. Rot in hell, you son of a bitch, your job is not to make the United States popular in the salons of Europe.

In the few moments I've got before I have to get to work, I just wanted to say that the Mousemobile was covered in four or five inches of now this morning. My feet froze as I had to stand in the deep snow on the side of the street to dig it out. My socks are dry now, but it took them a while to get that way. The wind was blowing not fiercely, but strongly, stirring up snow and reducing visibility. The roads had not been plowed as the snow is expected to fall all day; the road crews will wait for it to finally stop before they have at it. You crept along at a good ten miles below the speed limit, caustiously following the narrow tire tracks left by the car in front of you and the car in front of her.

All in all, it was a wet, treacherous, miserable winter morning. I adored it.

In Search of the Perfect LesbianMargaret Eastman, Pete Foster, Mary Peppard, Scipio Winter, and Stacey Hiraki were all on their respective swim teams in high school. Parker Peppard would have been, but he graduated when he was 15 and didn't really have much time for extracurricular activities. If you didn't swim, you have my pity, because you really missed out.